


If Only We Could Keep the Stars

by tactical_anxiety



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season 8, Season 8 who?, pairings up for interpretation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 21:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19709509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tactical_anxiety/pseuds/tactical_anxiety
Summary: The universe fractures apart. At its turning point, the threads of existence will either weave themselves closer together or unravel with nothing left behind.1. Lion's PrideShiro had never imagined a future on Earth. He had never imagined a future.Seeing his reflection in that small, grimy hospital wash closet mirror had truly cemented how permanent his place on Earth was becoming.The dark bags under eye bags were the consequences of staying up late to pen his address in between blinks. The creak in his back was from cramping into a wooden chair day and night. The more than five o’clock shadow on his jaw told just how little he had thought of himself in the months since the Lions fell down to Earth.Shiro could look forward to things now. He could stay.





	If Only We Could Keep the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> In no logical rational, did season 8 make sense. It didn't fit in with the aesthetic of the show, it didn't follow any of the storylines built up, and it definitely didn't have anything that made Voltron, actually Voltron.  
> I hope to phrase this fic as less of a wishful thinking on my part, and more as a continuation from season seven that is consistent with the show up till this point. I'm hoping to keep in line with the tone of the show, and because of this I'm willing to give up my own explicit wants for the show and am rather hoping to at least make a realistic continuation from season 7.

“Today is a solemn day.” 

The words echo out into the wind and above the thousands gathered.

Shiro doesn’t need to look down at the note cards scattered on the podium. The small time he had to himself, in between admiralty meetings concerning Earth’s recovery and even more meetings with the coalition for integrating cultures, was spent making sure that every sentence was packed away perfectly in his mind. Time staring at himself in a cramped wash closet mirror ensured Shiro’s memorization. 

The mirror forced Shiro to face how real the current situation was. In the last five years, give or take for space time dilation, Shiro had returned to home soil maybe three times. Never for more than one day, though.

Even when the entirety of Voltron had touched down on Earth for the first time, Shiro had been absolutely prepared to take off on short notice.

Nothing seemed permanent. Being reinstated as a Garrison officer and processing his battlefield promotion were unnecessary. He would be back in the stars at some point, with the Garrison or without.

Not even receiving a formal letter of apology from Admiral Sanda and the admiralty, going to court to dispute his false death certificate, and being handed back the access cards to his former on campus apartment had warranted a second thought on what that meant for his future.

Shiro had never imagined a future on Earth. He had never imagined a future.

Seeing his reflection in that small, grimy hospital wash closet mirror had truly cemented how permanent his place on Earth was becoming. 

The dark bags under eye bags were the consequences of staying up late to pen his address in between blinks. The creak in his back was from cramping into a wooden chair day and night. The more than five o’clock shadow on his jaw told just how little he had thought of himself in the months since the Lions fell down to Earth.

Now, after finally reading some of the papers and contracts that required his signature, Shiro could see where his life was going.

His position on the IGF Atlas was fastened into place, with a new uniform and fancy pension to match. The higher brass, that seemed intimidating back in his first years of being a Garrison employee, invited him to meetings, and bar hopping after. Shiro was personally asked by a group of Earth leaders to give a handwritten address to what remained of the human race.

Shiro could look forward to things now. He could stay.

He had spent hours on eliminating his emotions. Shiro acknowledged that he had been running on fumes for the past few months. He had to be careful with his responsibility. 

There was risk of putting too much feeling into the words. Risks that meant unbidden memories resurfacing. 

Glasses fogging up over a morning cup of coffee, the chill left when that warmth uprooted itself, purple streaking through the sky heading towards harsh ground.

Shiro could not allow goosebumps to rise along his skin, he could not allow chills to overtake him. Earth did not deserve to have a mess of a man breaking down during the first address of a new Earth.

Instead, Shiro focuses on the admiralty behind him and the portraits around him. The faces of people generalized as Earth’s greatest heroes stared out at those gathered, who only honored them due to their ultimate sacrifice. A morbidity that Shiro would’ve thought the planning committee would notice.

Shiro stares out over the crowd. He knew that looking directly down at them would shake his resolve. The speech had been crafted to spark hope and inspiration while also acknowledging the loss spread across the Earth.

He knew that if he looked down at any person, knowing them or not, he himself would break down, like them. 

The last few weeks had been full of reunions and first introductions of all kinds. Family members split between labor camps or the cosmos had come back together with sobs and hugs. Leaders from all around the universe had shaken hands, or whatever equivalent, with the intention of creating lasting relationships. 

The Garrison was teeming with life. A mix of Earth natives and outer worlders. Coalition planets had sent diplomatic committees to begin negotiations. The orange and grey colors of the Garrison and the rebel forces blended into each other seamlessly. Even the ever elusive Blade of Marmora had settled a few ships in Earth’s orbit.

Shiro saw the melting pot that Earth had become in just a few months. He held hope that the planet he calls home will find a new place in the opening galactic stage. A hope that humanity will continue with upwards progress as a society. The hope that those he loves will come back to him.

A rush of pride fills Shiro, offsetting the onset of a downward spiral. It comes from the thousands of people watching him, expecting leadership and inspiration of their own. He feels the power of the Lions of Voltron behind him. 

The Black Lion will never find a home in the back of Shiro’s head like it once did. The blank space is noticeable, though Shiro is thankful for some time away. 

An integral piece of his personality is missing, but that’s nothing new.

The only voice in his mind is his own. 

Even though, Shiro feels something like a rush coming from the Lion. He can feel pride and potential running through him and enveloping him totally and completely. Not just from the Black Lion, but from all of them. He can imagine their paladins sending their energy out to him. And he accepts it.

In a split second decision, Shiro forgoes the words neatly printed on his many note cards. The positive feedback loop of impulse and inspiration that Shiro and the crowd give back to each other falls into place.

“From here we will spread peace, and together we will hold strong...as the defenders of the universe.”

Raucous cheers from all in attendance over power the continuous echo of the final statement. 

In the afterglow, Shiro feels his eyes prickle with emotion.

Shiro makes his way down from the stage, shaking the hands of the admiralty as he goes. He has the full intention of finding the few familiar faces that he knew were in attendance, but more and more hands keep reaching out for his. 

Cameras and microphones are thrust into his face and Shiro finds himself swarmed by the ensuing media circus. The constant buzz of the cameras all trained on him and the countless drones flying around the scene draw Shiro out of his golden haze. 

Shiro knew what position he holds now. As a former star pilot come back from the grave as one of the spearheading figures against the Galra Empire, Shiro and his story had become a hot topic for the newly revived media. 

No amount of public relations training will ever be enough.

As the coven of reporters closes in around him, Shiro loses sight of Iverson, the young MFEs, and coalition leaders, each moving on to their own celebrations and reunions. Going with them, his own chance at escape.

The surrounding journalists flood Shiro with questions along the lines of his own loses, how he was dealing with the sudden change in status, and so on and so forth. The flurry of comments bringing on a migraine. 

“Captain Shirogane,” one woman managed to cut off all the other reporters and push herself into becoming the majority of Shiro’s field of vision. “Can you please elaborate for us what you meant by Earth becoming ‘the defenders of the universe’?”

“Uh, ever since the introduction of intelligent alien life to our society,” Shiro begins, trying to find an intelligent way of pulling a meaning to his impulse decision out of his ass for the reporters corralling him, “we’ve been intent on integrating technology and cultures, and the Garrison has immediately begun the process of proposing alliances…”.

Shiro had never been adept with the media. He barely kept his social medias to date, much less relating on a larger scale with his Garrison status.

A sharp sound cut through the drum. Over the shoulder of the woman before him was Kosmo. The space wolf gave another bark, turning and weaving through the people milling about.

Shiro’s already lacking interview tapers off, his full attention given to the cosmic creature.

Relief floods through him. Shiro can feel the pounding in his head subsiding. Kosmo becomes the out he needs.

“If you’ll excuse me...my dog…” Shiro managed to politely push through the wall of journalists. He forces his way to Kosmo just before the wolf lets out another bark. 

At the sight of Shiro, Kosmo bounds up to him. Kosmo jumps against Shiro and whines for his attention. Shiro kneels down, pushing Kosmo along with him, and runs his fingers through Kosmo’s blue down.

“What are you doing here, boy?” Shiro asked as Kosmo rubs his cold nose into Shiro’s cheeks and licks across his face. With a slight push and a laugh from Shiro, Kosmo pulls away. 

He runs a few paces from Shiro before whirling around to look back at him. Confused by the wolf’s behavior and exasperated by the slobbery face, but still thankful for the get out of jail free card, Shiro pushes himself off of his knees and follows Kosmo. 

After a few more paces, Kosmo turns to make sure Shiro is behind him. Shiro laughs at the extra circles Kosmo twirls in and the ferocious wag of his tail forcing his entire body to vibrate. 

It’s so rare that the canine gets the chance to act like a normal dog. 

In as close to a prance that an otherworldly canine can get to, Kosmo continues through the crowd, Shiro walking after him.

“I’m not complaining, buddy, but you know you shouldn’t be here. Didn’t I tell you do look after…” The breath leaves Shiro’s lungs. 

The last time he saw Kosmo was a few hours ago. He had calmed Kosmo’s whines with a rousing scratch behind the ears after he had been booted from laying at the end of the hospital bed by the nurses, for fear of disturbing…

Shiro runs after Kosmo, not caring who he hits on his way by. Kosmo bursts out into a full sprint through the throng of humans and other worlders, so glad that the human finally gets it. 

Shiro surges from the edge of the crowd after him. He runs alongside Kosmo, and keeps the momentum when the world dissolves around him with the acidic smell of ozone.

Shiro’s dress shoes squeak loud against the linoleum of the Garrison's hospital. A few people milling about in the hallways are unsurprisingly alarmed by the sudden apparition of a man and a brightly colored animal. 

Any personnel in the direct line of the pair dive out of the way. Shiro continues on his forward drive, barely thinking along the way. Both his and Kosmo’s desperate panting drown out any thoughts anyway.

Kosmo pads up ahead, stopping at a door slightly ajar down the hallway. He glances back at Shiro and gives him a gleeful whip of his tail. Shiro’s run slows into a jog and then a strong walk. He absentmindedly straightens out his uniform jacket and looks at his appearance in the faint reflections of the windows in the hallway. 

He slows to a complete stop coming beside the cosmic wolf. Shiro swipes a hand through his hair. Shiro knew he looked like a mess. His neatly combed fringe was wind ruffled less than attractively, he was panting from the run, the amount of blue hair clinging to him could make a whole new Kosmo. 

And now his eyes were undeniably twinkling with emotion threatening to burst forward.

Kosmo looks up at him, and Shiro took comfort in those gold eyes and the dopey smile on his face, with the majority of his tongue hanging to the side, inspired Shiro beyond all words. He gives Kosmo a gentle rub.

Shiro’s flesh hand pushes against the door and it opens.

A notebook was still left open on the side table, pages filled with the drafts of his speech and idle doodling. The pen was left uncapped and had probably dried out by now. There were also some IGF Atlas personnel applications were scattered about. 

Shiro’s Garrison hoodie was draped over the arm of the wooden chair, his chair if the popping coming from his spine had anything to say about it. The hoodie itself was fur covered as well, along with cheeto dust collecting around the sleeves.

Kolivan was perched silently in the corner on the only other chair. Krolia lounged on the windowsill. She had set up her own temporary office space adjacent to Shiro’s. The dull hum of the television, eternally locked on lacking daytime programs, mounted on the wall was still deafening in the otherwise silent room.

All of Shiro’s attempts to breath life into the empty space in the last few months had never turned out successful. 

The revolving door of flowers and potted plants he brought in never lasted more than a week, and he felt especially sad for Kosmo, who was forbidden all manner of entertainment in the space, but still refused to leave. Much like Shiro.

But now in this moment, the hospital room was bright, and Shiro couldn’t breath.

Shiro’s eyes met Keith’s.

Any attempts that Shiro made to make the room more “homely” pale in comparison to this.

The heavy drone of the medical equipment and the television become less than background noise. Nothing mattered. 

Kosmo nudges the back of Shiro’s knees, nearly causing them to buckle. Shiro stumbles into the room. He catches himself on the back of the ragged chair right beside the door, knocking the hoodie to the floor. With the falling momentum, Shiro careens to the side of the hospital bed. Driving the metal frame into his chest knocks the air from his lungs, but not so much as the sight of endless eyes finally open.

Krolia runs a hand though Keith’s bangs, though it doesn’t disturb Keith’s concentration. She whispers something into the air and she leads Kolivan to leave the room, gently closing the door behind them. 

A shuddering breath breaks the air. Keith opens his mouth, no words coming out. He flounders for a bit. Shiro was no better. 

His full attention was on cataloging every change in Keith’s face that had occurred since this morning. But know Keith is an active participant.

Kosmo pushes his way alongside Shiro. He squeezes a paw up on the bed, nudging up against Keith’s own hand. 

Keith’s breathy laugh brought Shiro back into the moment. Kosmo tries to scabber onto the bed, aiming to reclaim his place at the foot of the cot. The near silent amusement quickly turn into hacking fits of coughs as Kosmo’s efforts double.

Coming entirely out of his soft daze, Shiro rushes to softly lead Kosmo away from the bed, while simultaneously trying to offer whatever comfort he can to relieve Keith’s coughing. He ends up gently guiding Keith back into the mountain of pillows, being extremely careful of all the wires and bandages crossing Keith’s body.

This all placed Shiro in the position that Kosmo had just been pushed out of. He’s haphazardly leaning over Keith, one knee digging into the thin mattress. Keith’s stuttering subsides and the screeching of the monitors subside, but Shiro still perches precariously over him.

Keith huffs from under Shiro. 

“Hi,” he breathes out, barely intelligible. His voice rough from disuse and Keith winces at the scratch in his throat. Shiro would do anything to assuage Keith’s discomfort, but he doesn’t quite want to give up his time with Keith to call a nurse for water.

Keith’s harsh voice brings further attention to Keith’s overall similar appearance. During the months in the medical ward, Shiro had witnessed Keith’s angular face grow gaunt. And while his wounds healed and the bruising color lessened, Shiro also saw all color bleed from his face.

The gash on Keith’s forehead had still refused to stay sealed. Blood still sluggishly bled through the gause. The weak flickering light was amazingly enough the give Keith a noticeable tan line along where a nasal cannula runs across his face.

Through this all, Keith still looked like Keith. And Keith was...

“Hi,” Shiro whispers in return.

Unbidden to him, Shiro’s metal hand floats from his side. The metal fingers brushing Keith’s inky bangs away from his eyes, gently scraping against the thick bandages across his forehead. The hand drifts back down to Keith’s cheek in a caress that should be too tender for the prosthetic.

Shiro shudders, breath catching in his throat. The emotion he’d compartmentalized, all the overthinking brought up during sleepless nights, the memories his speech forced, the ever present fear the sound that the flat line brought.

“It’s good to have you back,” is what the culmination of every thought and feeling becomes.

“It’s good to be back,” is the reply.

The Black Lion looks down on the scene, through the window and in the distance, while the Earth is rebuilt around it.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to have some things cleared up for the audience regarding this fic to keep in mind while reading this fic and to justify some of my ideas in this story.
> 
> I am of the opinion that the absolute main characters of Voltron are Allura, Keith, and Shiro. So I want to have that said up front as to why most of the fic will have a point of view from either of these characters. I'm sorry if this doesn't match your personal interpretation, but I think it is fairly evidenced in cannon.
> 
> Season 8 did have a fairly odd balance of filler episodes and plot based episodes. I hope to rectify that. I also did genuinely think some parts of season 8 were decent at best, that is why I've phrased this as a divergence of cannon in some places and not a straight up rewrite. 
> 
> I've decided to keep some elements from each episode and also the titles of each episode, just to make this harder for myself of course. The ending is completely changed though, no worries there.
> 
> At the end of the day, I want to hope that this is at least an improvement on cannon and makes sense in the world of Voltron and with all the previous build up to certain plot points never touched again and being genuine to the characters and message of Voltron.
> 
> Thank you so much for being here with me!  
> Come chill with me on twitter, @tacticalanxiety


End file.
